Twin Rooms
by BlueVase
Summary: Shelagh and Patrick decide to go on a little holiday. Imagine their surprise when it turns out that Trixie and Christopher are staying in the same hotel. In fact, they are staying in the room next to the Turners. Hotel walls are awfully thin...
1. Chapter 1

**Based on an anonymous ask: Trixie and Christopher and Shelagh and Patrick go on a weekend away together and stay in adjoining rooms, and let's just say... the walls are pretty thin... Can I give you a few prompts based on this? 'Trixie smirked at Shelagh, entered the bedroom, and smiled suggestively at Christopher.' 'My god... can you hear that Shelagh? Is that Trixie and Christopher?' 'How did you sleep then you two? That is if you got any...' I know they are dirty but I think it would be hilarious.**

 **A/N 3 chapters, one for every line anon has given me! Those lines are underlined.**

Trixie and Christopher were the last people Shelagh had expected to encounter on a weekend away with Patrick. In fact, she'd not expected to meet anyone familiar, since the hotel was miles and miles away from London, and quite isolated.

 _Yet here they are,_ Shelagh thought, placing her suitcase at her feet. It was a soft pink, and more expensive than she'd have liked, but Trixie had assured her it would last years. "I have the same one, sweetie," she'd said, and pushed Shelagh to the counter so she could purchase it.

"Well," Patrick said, shaking Christopher's hand and smiling, "I didn't know you two were going on a little holiday!"

Trixie blushed and smoothed a fold out of her azure dress. She wore diamond earrings that glistened like water in the soft hallway light. "We hoped that a weekend in a hotel would make us forget about work," she said, looking at Christopher from the corner of her eyes. "It seems we always get interrupted when we want to spend time together."

 _I know that feeling,_ Shelagh thought. She adored her children, but with a baby, a toddler, a teenager and two demanding jobs, she and Patrick hadn't been intimate in what felt like eons. As if reading her mind, Patrick slung an arm around her, his fingertips travelling over the small of her back before his hand reached her shoulder. She supressed a shiver. _Naughty man._

"Fancy meeting you here, though," Christopher said.

"And adjoining rooms, too, " Patrick said, nodding to room 205 and 207.

"At least we won't have to be embarrassed when we have to go and tell our neighbours to keep it down. I overheard a guest saying that the walls are quite thin," Shelagh said.

"Oh, they are. We could hear everything our neighbours did yesterday." Trixie paused. "Maybe that'll make it more embarrassing," she continued, cocking an eyebrow, a smile playing around her perfectly painted lips.

Shelagh blushed, but didn't break eye contact. "I'm sure that what happens in this hotel can stay between these walls," she said.

Patrick leaned in to kiss her. "Or between the sheets," he whispered.

More blood shot to her cheeks, colouring them crimson. _How he loves to tease me._ She'd pay him back in full later, between those very sheets he was using against her now.

"I'm sure of it, Doctor Turner," Trixie said. She smirked at Shelagh, entered the bedroom, and smiled suggestively at Christopher.

Shelagh turned away, doing her best to forget that little smirk. She picked her suitcase from the floor and placed her hand on Patrick's arm as he fumbled with the lock on their room. It seemed to take forever before he managed to get the door open.

The room was spacious but cold. Shelagh turned on the lamps on the bedside tables, and placed her suitcase on the bed. The corners of the blankets weren't entirely straight. She supressed the urge to smooth them; the sheets would be rumpled in an hour or so, anyway.

She could hear Christopher and Trixie speak in the room next door, but their voices were muffled, and sounded only vaguely like them.

 _How quiet we must be if we don't want to disturb them._

Shelagh walked to the window and fingered the thick, velvety curtains. They were no match against the cold, which could easily slip into the room because of the thin glass and warped windowsills. as Shelagh closed the curtains a dead moth fell from between the red folds. She touched the fuzzy body with a fingertip, then shuddered.

"Cold, my love?" Patrick whispered. He stepped beside her and nuzzled her neck.

"Yes. This room is awfully draughty."

"It's because this side of the building faces the sea. Can you hear it?" They were both silent, listening to the faint murmur of waves falling over each other and breaking upon shingled coast. The wind roared around the hotel, throwing occasional droplets of rain against the windows like handfuls of pebbles.

"Sea wind. No wonder it's cold," Shelagh agreed.

"You didn't look cold in the hallway, though," Patrick said, kissing the pulse point underneath her ear.

"You're a beast. You know that, don't you?" She turned around so she could look at him.

He grinned, and draped his arms around her. "I do like to devour a pretty woman every now and again."

"I bet you do. That'll have to wait, though. We have to put our luggage away, and I'd like to take a bath. Besides…"

He placed a sloppy kiss on the corner of her mouth. One of his hands snaked underneath her skirt, stroking the strip of skin between her knickers and her stockings. "Are you sure, my love? I think you might have mixed up the order of things. I think you'll need a bath _after_ I'm done with you," he whispered, hot breath ghosting over the shell of her ear.

She shivered against him. In retaliation, she took his face between her hands and kissed him hard, tilting her hips against him.

"If I'm a beast, then you're a temptress," he moaned between two kisses.

She pushed him on the bed. As she placed the bags on the ground, Patrick made short work of his clothes.

Shelagh put her glasses on the nightstand, took her hairclip out and shook her head, hair floating around her face.

"I don't tell you enough," Patrick said, voice thick.

"What?"

"That you're the most beautiful creature I've ever seen."

She smiled, and pulled her dress over her head. "It's never too late to begin." He helped her undress further. Gooseflesh rippled over her arms and legs and breasts. Her nipples pebbled in the freezing air. She shivered, though from cold or want or both, she could not say.

Patrick rubbed her arms and grinned. "It really is cold here," he said.

She nodded, and buried herself under the blankets, then drew him on top of her. She could hardly imagine that he was cold; his skin burned with desire, as did his eyes.

He kissed her as he slid a hand between her legs.

She moaned, and curved her spine.

"You must be quiet if you don't want Trixie and Christopher to know what we're doing," Patrick whispered in her ear, fingers working their magic.

"They won't. The wind…"

"Do you think a little winter storm can drown out your lovely voice? No, if you don't want our neighbours to hear us, you must be quiet, darling."

"You're making it very hard," Shelagh confessed.

"Am I?" he smirked, twisting his fingers in a way that always drove her a little mad with need.

She pressed her mouth against his shoulder to still the moans he drew from her.

"I do love it when you blush," he said, kissing her cheek.

"Patrick, please. I want you," she whimpered. She spread her legs and folded them around him.

Never one to deny her anything, he obliged. They both groaned with pleasure, then stilled and waited, listening for sounds from the other room.

Trixie said something, causing Christopher to laugh. Their voices continued in soft murmurs, lulling like the sea.

 _Maybe they were already talking. God knows I wasn't paying attention._

"Do you think they heard us?" Patrick whispered, kissing the tip of Shelagh's nose.

"I don't know," she said, and rocked her hips. She forgot to listen after that.

They made love slowly, languorously. They took delight in the time they had for the other now. It stretched and stretched in front of them as if it would not end. There were no children that needed them, no patients to tend to. There was only this, and this was bliss.

 _So much time for Patrick, so much time for myself, feels almost decadent._

Shelagh had to place a hand over Patrick's mouth to muffle his cry as he came undone, just as she had to place her mouth against his shoulder to still her own sounds.

He rolled them on their sides, and kissed her face. "I can't remember the last time we did it like this," he murmured. "It seems as if we must always make love quickly."

"That's part of the reason why I wanted us to come away," Shelagh confessed.

Patrick smiled, and drew circles on her arm. They listened to the wind roar for a little while. The rain fell more regularly now, every drop bursting apart against the unrelenting glass and stone of the hotel.

Shelagh propped herself up on her elbows. "I'm going to brush my teeth and change into my nightgown."

"No bath?"

"Do you think we're done already?"

Patrick groaned, and rubbed his eyes. "They don't tell you this when you marry a younger wife," he said.

"Is that a complaint?" Shelagh asked, slipping out of bed.

"Quite the opposite." He stretched, causing his joints to pop. "Shall I go and get us a bottle of wine?"

"We're not that decadent yet, surely?" she asked, pulling her nightgown over her head. The fabric was cool as it slithered over her skin. She shivered again.

"I do need something to eat if we're going in for multiple rounds, and I suspect you might like some food, too." Patrick put his shirt on.

"In that case I'll brush my teeth later." Shelagh sat down on the bed again, hugging Patrick from behind. He touched the hand she'd pressed over his heart, stroking her knuckles.

"Do you think the children are all right?" she whispered.

"Of course they are. We've left them in the capable hands of several midwives. If they can't handle them, no one can."

Shelagh kissed his neck, his ear. "You make them sound like little monsters."

"They have a beast for a father…" Patrick grinned.

"Hm." She kissed his temple, smoothed his hair, then let him go. He dressed quickly, gave her a soft kiss, then left the room.

Shelagh pulled the blankets around her, letting her head droop against the pillow. She was delightfully drowsy, but desire still coiled in her belly. She wanted Patrick next to her, touching her.

 _I always want him._

She flipped on her belly, and drew the novel she was reading from her purse. She pushed her glasses back on her nose. She could read a few pages before he came back. It would help her forget the dull ache of desire unsated.

She'd finished three pages when the lights flickered. Shelagh put the book away and frowned. The wind was still roaring outside, throwing rain against the hotel in furious handfuls. At a particular vicious gust, the lights flickered again, then died.

"Oh no," she murmured. She put her book away, then tried to find her way to the door. She tripped over her suitcase and cursed very softly, pushing the pink monster out of the way, against the wall. She touched the walls with spread hands till she located the door. The handle was startlingly cold. She opened the door on a crack and peered into the hallway. All was darkness. "Patrick?" No answer.

The cold nestled in her bare feet, rippling over her skin. _I'll slip back into bed, and when I hear something, I'll go to the door to help Patrick get back in here,_ she thought.

In room 205, everything was quiet. Maybe Trixie and Christopher had already fallen asleep, and hadn't noticed that there was no electricity.

Shelagh sighed contently when a pocket of warmth trapped by the covers enveloped her like a lover's embrace. She put her glasses away, curled up, and stared at the door. Her eyes were slowly getting used to the darkness. A strip of moonlight fell through a gap in the curtains, flickering in and out of existence as clouds travelled in front of it.

She thought about the little corpse of the moth on the windowsill. If she asked for an empty matchbox at the reception, she could take it back home, and give it to Timothy. It was not as pretty as the dead butterfly he'd given her, but he'd be interested in it regardless. He was such a darling boy.

 _Almost a grown man now,_ she thought, a little sadly. She closed her eyes, forcing herself to recall his face when he'd still been a lanky child with a scraped arm and ill-matched clothes. How had time slipped away so fast? He was so much taller than she was nowadays, and no longer pale and sad.

 _Like Patrick is no longer sad,_ she thought, and smiled a little. She wiggled out of her nightgown, folding it neatly and placing it on the nightstand. She wanted to be ready for when he got back. _How I love him._

She must've slept a bit, then, because when she woke, it was because Patrick got into bed next to her.

"Hm," she said, and slung her arm around him, pressing her mouth against his. "So you've found your way back. I hope you brought some food, you beast," she whispered.

Very softly, the person next to her said, "Shit."

Shelagh grew cold and afraid.

 _That doesn't sound like Patrick._


	2. Chapter 2

Patrick had managed to secure a bottle of wine, some bread, and some cheese. He was halfway up the stairs when the electricity died.

"Hell's bells," he cursed. He slipped the wrapped cheese in his pocket, tucked the bottle and the piece of bread under his arm, and used his free hand to feel for the banister. It was cold as ice, but guided him safely to the right floor.

By that time, his eyes had gotten used to the dark just enough to allow him to walk in a somewhat straight line down the hallway. He touched the patterned wallpaper with his fingertips, trying to count the doors. It was no use; he didn't remember if their room was five doors down, or three, or maybe four.

 _I wasn't paying attention to the scenery,_ Patrick thought, memory of Shelagh's well-formed calves flowering in his mind. She'd gone up the stairs ahead of him as he carried his suitcase and their two bags, providing him with a very pretty view as he struggled to carry all their luggage to their room. They hadn't meant to bring much with them, but they'd stopped at a little town on their way to the hotel, and had strolled through the shopping street after lunch, entering several dress shops as Shelagh looked for a pair of gloves that matched her pale winter coat. He had urged her to try on a lovely dress with a poppy pattern, and then another one with a neckline a little lower than she usually wore. Then, he'd asked her to try on some blouses, and a skirt…

 _I can't help it. She just looks so good in everything,_ Patrick thought a little helplessly. She was a bit of a tight-fisted Scot, but every now and again she allowed him to indulge, and then he'd buy her a nice skirt, or a brooch. Today, he'd bought her a little more than that.

 _At least she has that pink suitcase. We can stuff most of the shopping bags in there, and minimise the risk of me breaking my neck going down these stairs._

His hand encountered smooth wood that gave way as he pushed. Had Shelagh left the door open for him, so he could find his way back? Or was this someone else's room? He peeked inside, squinting to make out shapes in the darkness. A bit of moonlight splayed on the floor, illuminating the corner of a suitcase. Its colours were washed out.

 _Is it pink?_ It was a light colour at any rate. How many women did have such a suitcase, anyway? Besides, there were no other people sleeping on this floor, apart from the Dockerills.

Shelagh was asleep, curled up and buried underneath the covers. Patrick shut the door as quietly as he could, put the food on the nightstand, and slipped out of his clothes. He threw them on the ground haphazardly, not really caring where they landed. He could sort all of that out in the morning.

Shelagh's breathing was deep and regular.

 _So much for a younger wife,_ he thought, tenderness flooding through him. She worked so hard it was little wonder she was exhausted.

He decided not to wear his pyjamas; if she woke up and decided she wanted more shenanigans, he didn't want to bother with buttons and fabric; Shelagh loved skin-on-skin contact.

Patrick got into bed. The mattress dipped under his weight. He sighed, and pressed his nose against the pillow. It smelled like perfume. _How scents can change,_ he thought, _I don't remember Shelagh's perfume smelling like this. Maybe she put some of that new perfume on before falling asleep._ It smelled faintly familiar, at any rate.

He wanted to reach out and hold her, but she was sleeping so soundly... Besides, if he woke her now, he doubted he'd get any sleep at all, and if he was honest, he was tired as a dog.

Patrick was drifting off when a small scream next door rudely dragged him from slumber. Groggily, he rubbed his eyes, and listened. The creaking of bed springs, a muffled thud.

 _Trixie and Christopher seem to be enjoying themselves,_ he thought.

A deep groan, and more creaking of bed springs.

How could he sit at the breakfast table tomorrow and look them straight in the eye if they kept this up?

"My God… can you hear that, Shelagh? Is that Trixie and Christopher?" he murmured, touching his wife's shoulder.

She spun around to face him, her hair a pale smear against the pillow. At that moment, the electricity came back on again.

 _Fuck,_ Patrick thought. The woman next to him was definitely not his wife.

Trixie let out a high-pitched sound reminiscent of someone stepping on a squirrel, and fell out of bed in her haste to get away from him. Patrick stumbled out of bed, bruising his knees.

 _Fuck, fuck, fuck._

He put on his clothes in record-time whilst muttering excuse after excuse.

Trixie slipped on a bathrobe and stood in the corner of the room, eyes big. She put her hand near her mouth to tear at her nails, then let her hand flutter down. She tried not to look at him, but Patrick felt her eyes burn holes in his back regardless.

 _She's like a startled fawn. What would she have done if I'd tried to kiss her, or touch her?_ He was not a religious man, but he offered up a tiny prayer to thank whatever power had stopped him from reaching out to the other side of the bed.

"So sorry. The electricity was off. I thought this was my room." He looked at the pink suitcase near the door. "Shelagh has a pink suitcase."

"We have the same suitcase," Trixie said. She sobbed.

Patrick ceased trying to get every button to go through the right hole, and turned to her. "Trixie, I'm sorry, I didn't mean…"

She wasn't sobbing; she was laughing. Her eyes, though red-rimmed as if she had been crying recently, were full of mirth.

"Do you think this is funny?" he asked, hating how crimson his cheeks were.

"Don't you, Doctor Turner?"

 _How am I ever going to work with her again without thinking about this?_

"I mainly find it mortifying. How am I going to explain this to Shelagh? And to Christopher?"

As if on cue, someone next door emitted a low moan. Patrick locked eyes with Trixie. "If this isn't my room, and Christopher isn't here, then who is it we're hearing?"

Patrick was through the door before making the conscious decision to move. He pushed the handle of room 207 down, but the door was closed. He rapped on the wood with his knuckles. "Shelagh? Shelagh, are you there?'

"Don't you have a key?" Trixie asked.

Patrick patted his trouser pockets, extracted the key to his room, and tried to get it to fit inside the lock. There was no need; the door opened before he managed to get the key in. Shelagh stood before him, wrapped in a white blanket that was covered with rusty stains. Her eyes were very big, but that may have been because she was not wearing glasses, and had to do her best to focus.

"Why is there blood on you?" Patrick asked. Already he reached for her, trying to assess the damage.

"Because she broke my nose," a muffled voice said.

"Christopher!" Trixie slipped past Patrick and into the room, to her husband. He sat on the edge of the bed, pressing a wet towel to his nose.

"I didn't mean to," Shelagh said, stepping aside so Patrick could come in. She closed the door behind him with a soft _snick_. "He startled me. It was a reflex…"

"You should teach self-defence classes," Christopher said, and smiled. His teeth were stained pink. Some blood dripped down his chin. Trixie tutted at him, and pressed the towel against his bruised nose.

"He thought this was room 205," Shelagh said.

"I saw a pink suitcase. I thought it was Trixie's."

"Doctor Turner is familiar with the problem," Trixie said, grinning at Patrick and giving him a wink.

"Have you set his nose?" Patrick asked Shelagh, doing his best not to blush.

She nodded. Her hair was delightfully mussed. Through the thick wave of shame came soft-padded arousal. _I need the Dockerills out of this room,_ Patrick thought.

"Did you go into the wrong room, too?" she asked, picking up her nightgown with the hand that she wasn't using to keep the sheet around her closed.

"I thought it was ours."

Patrick sat down next to Christopher, and turned the other man's head towards him so he could look at his nose. It had already swollen considerably, and turned blue and lilac. "If you're unlucky, you might have two black eyes come morning," he said. He threw Shelagh a glance over his shoulder, unable to keep from looking impressed.

"Be glad they weren't your teeth," Trixie said. She used a wet corner of the towel to wipe away some of the blood that had crusted on his chin.

"I'll still have to tell my patients some kind of story. I can't very well tell them that I got into bed with the doctor's wife, and she gave me two shiners as a result," Christopher said.

"We'll think of something," Trixie decided. She looked at the Turners. "I'll take him back to our room to clean him up."

"I'm really awfully sorry," Shelagh said.

"Don't be," Christopher said. "I should've looked before crawling into bed. Besides, women do love a bit of a rugged look on a man."

"Better looks are the last thing you need, dearest," Trixie muttered under her breath. She shook her head, and said, "Men."

"I'll come in a bit to get my food," Patrick decided.

Trixie winked at him again, helped Christopher up, and stepped into the hallway.

Patrick closed the door behind them, and inhaled deeply before turning to face Shelagh. "You broke his nose," he said.

She sat down on the bed, twisting her hands. "I didn't mean to," she repeated, "but he startled me. I wanted to push him away, not smash his face in."

"You broke his nose," Patrick repeated, and started to laugh. He couldn't help it; Shelagh looked so guilty, and so terribly sexy at the same time…

"It's not funny," she told him, lips pursed.

"Isn't it?" He made an effort to stop. He sat down next to his wife and slung his arm around her. Spasms of laughter made his stomach ache. "I'm glad Trixie's first response is flight over fight."

Shelagh looked at him, two worry lines between her eyebrows. "Did I gather correctly that you saw a pink suitcase, thought it was mine, and went into Trixie's room?"

He told her how he went into room 205, thinking it was the right room, how he'd undressed and slipped into bed with someone who turned out to be his colleague and his wife's friend rather than his actual wife.

Shelagh groaned, and rubbed her eyes. "Remind me next time to make sure that we pick a hotel far away from everyone we know, and to check whether no one we know stays there at the same time."

"Remind me not to startle you. Ever." Patrick took her hand in his. Her knuckles were red and raw. He pressed a kiss to the swollen flesh, then fetched another damp towel to wrap her hand in.

"I had such good plans for us," Shelagh said, fingers twitching as he pressed the cold fabric to her skin.

"Do you need two hands for them?" Patrick asked, smirking.

"Patrick, really. I've just assaulted a friend. I couldn't possibly…"

"Couldn't you?"

"Patrick!" She slapped his arm lightly.

Patrick fell from the bed. "Oh no!" he moaned. "I think you've broken my arm. My super strong wife…"

Shelagh rolled her eyes, then extended her hand to him to pull him up. "You're ridiculous. You know that, don't you?"

"Ridiculously in love with you," Patrick said. He cupped her face and kissed her. "And also ridiculously needy right now," he said, touching her collar bones and drawing a gentle line from one end to the other.

Shelagh shivered under his caress. "I remember you saying something about getting us food and drink," she murmured.

"I did. Are you hungry, my love?" He nipped her ear. Her hand startled open, allowing the sheet to slither down.

"A little bit, yes," she admitted.

"Let me take care of it," Patrick said, and kissed her again.


	3. Chapter 3

**TW: mention of alcoholism and child neglect.**

 **Thanks to purple-roses-words-and-love for betaing.**

 _This night did not go the way I thought it would,_ Trixie thought as she closed the door behind Doctor Turner.

"You should've hid the cheese and bread," Christopher said.

"Don't tell me you feel like eating," Trixie said, sitting down next to him, brushing a curl out of his face, "not with your poor face like that."

"I'm afraid we won't be kissing for a while, Trix."

"I know."

"But maybe you prefer that," Christopher said quietly.

"I'm all right with kissing." She touched his hand. His fingers twitched against her palm, and drew tiny circles. "At least I understand how Doctor Turner managed to seduce a nun," she said, trying to lighten the mood.

* * *

Christopher raised an eyebrow.

"Don't look at me like that. If you'd seen him naked, you'd surely understand."

"Size is not everything, Trix."

"They say that only those who have small… you-know-whats say that," Trixie said, and laughed. It still sounded a little forced.

"You must know how untrue that statement is, Mrs Dockerill."

Now it was her turn to cock an eyebrow. "Do I?"

He smiled a little sadly, and kissed her hand. They were both still a bit raw from earlier that evening.

 _I love him so,_ Trixie thought. She sighed, and rubbed her eyes. _How different this night started…_

They had eaten in the hotel's restaurant, and talked and laughed.

"You have no idea what you do to me," Christopher had whispered in her ear as they went up the stairs, his hand in the small of her back.

"I have an idea," she'd answered, and turned her face so she could kiss him. Their marriage was still young, and they hadn't tired of touching each other constantly. Trixie didn't think they ever would.

"Let's go to bed, my love," Christopher had murmured between her kisses. She'd smiled at him, and wiped her lipstick from his mouth and cheeks.

Meeting the Turners outside their hotel room had only been a minor setback. In fact, even though Trixie would never confess this out loud, she felt a thrill at the knowledge that her friends were so close and could probably hear her making love to her husband.

She guided Christopher inside with a predatory smile, and almost tore his clothes from him as soon as the door was shut behind them.

"God, I love you so much," he said as he peppered her hair and face and throat with kisses.

"Then help me out of this dress and show me," she said, damning the zipper she could not undo on her own.

Christopher did as she commanded. They fell on the bed, their legs tangling. Her breath came in little pants already. She wanted his skin on hers, wanted him inside her, hitting that sweet spot till she had to cling to him, helpless and trembling.

"God, it's cold," Christopher complained.

"We could get a fire going in the hearth."

"That takes too long, and there's something I need now," Christopher said, voice thick.

Trixie separated herself from him and went to their closet. "Here," she said, and threw his pyjama to him.

"Not what I meant," he said, but he put on his shirt anyway. Trixie slipped into her nightgown. The cold travelled up through the soles of her feet and nestled into her legs. She hesitated, then threw on one of Christopher's jumpers.

He had pulled the covers over himself, and looked at her. His face was lit by the bedside lamp, causing his eyes to sparkle. "God help me, you're so beautiful," he said, voice cracking a little.

 _Will I ever tire from seeing his adoration?_ Trixie thought. She rolled up the jumper's sleeves, pressing them to her nose to smell Christopher's scent on her. She was enveloped by it.

"Come," he said, and held his hand out to her, beckoning her to come to bed.

They kissed for a long time, his hand on her rear, driving her a little crazier with every thoughtless stroke of his thumb.

There were times when Trixie wanted everything all at once. There was a hunger inside her that demanded to be sated, a fire that roared and burned and licked at her with flames of desire and need.

She pushed Christopher on his back and straddled him, her mouth hot on his, his hands on her hips. When he entered her, they both gasped.

"We must be quiet, or the Turners…" Christopher whispered.

"Let them hear. I don't care." She rolled her hips. Christopher bucked up into her. She moaned and curved her spine in pleasure.

 _More,_ she thought.

Their coupling was heated and quickly led to its inevitable conclusion. Trixie bit the jumper's long sleeve so as not to scream; she might have said she didn't much care about the opinion of Shelagh and Patrick, but there was a difference between the Turners knowing their neighbours were making love, and them hearing this low little cry that was just for her husband.

Christopher held her whilst she trembled from pleasure. Enveloped in his scent and warmth, she felt delightfully heavy and happy.

"Trixie?" he whispered.

"Hm?" She was so sleepy. If she wasn't careful, she'd drift off. She'd…

"Shouldn't we start trying for a child?"

"A child?" She sat up straight, all drowsiness gone. "What on earth for?"

Christopher blinked. The smile on his face faded a little. "Why not? Don't you want one?"

 _Don't I? Do I?_ Confused, she shrugged. She brought her hand to her face, and brushed a lock behind her ear. She'd lie if she said she hadn't thought about it. They had discussed it before their marriage, and had decided to wait a while.

"But I'm using the pill," she said a little helplessly. She tore at her nail with her teeth. Her heart was hammering in her chest so forcefully it felt as if it would bruise. She couldn't feel her feet.

Christopher took her hand and pulled it away from her mouth. "You could stop taking it."

"No!" She shook her head. "I'd be a godawful mother, and I'd have to stop working, and…" she gasped.

"Calm down, Trixie. It was just a suggestion."

"Nobody has ever calmed down when somebody told them to!" Trixie spat. She pulled her hand from his.

"Why are you so upset?" Christopher asked. "You're a wonderful mother to Alexandra. Besides, you're a midwife and have to deal with children and babies every day."

"But I can give all of those children back! I can't do that with my own baby. What if…" Emotion squeezed her throat shut. She swallowed, then sobbed. She wiped away her tears with her sleeve. It smelled of Christopher's after-shave.

"What if?" Christopher asked, pulling her close, draping his arms around her.

She couldn't speak, but Christopher was there. He rocked her a little, planting the occasional kiss against her cheek or throat or hand.

"What if it's too much for me?" She almost choked on the words. "What if I start drinking again? I can't do that to a child. I know what such a thing does to a child…"

"Oh, Trixie," Christopher murmured into her hair. "We don't have to if you don't want to."

"But you want to. That's not fair on you. I always thought I'd make a good wife, but now…"

"You're the best wife I could wish for, Trix. Please stop crying. I'm sorry I brought it up. I'm sorry."

She shook her head. "I'm the one who should be sorry," she murmured.

 _You've spoiled it. You've spoiled this weekend and this night and he'll hate you for it,_ a mean little voice told her. _You need a drink,_ it added. Disgusted with herself, she dug her nails in her palm till she almost pierced her skin.

Christopher took her hands in his and uncurled her fingers. He kissed her smarting palms. "I'm sorry, Trix."

"Are… are you angry with me?" she whispered.

He rested their foreheads together. "Of course not, sweetheart. I should've picked a different moment for this conversation. We weren't ready yet."

She laughed a little. "We're married."

"And still it wasn't the right time." He fetched a damp towel for her swollen eyes.

Trixie put her head on the pillow. "I'm tired," she said.

"Then sleep," he said, and kissed her forehead.

She held his hand tightly till she drifted off.

When she'd woken, it had not been because Christopher was in bed beside her, but Patrick. The entire situation was so bizarre that she could not help but laugh. And wink. And toss her hair.

 _Pretending nothing is wrong,_ she'd thought as she winked at Patrick, hating herself for pretending to be merry, yet unable to stop.

"I'm all right with kissing," she repeated when Patrick was gone and the silence between her and her husband had become thick.

"I'm glad."

"Does it hurt terribly?" she asked.

"A little." He withered under her stern gaze. "All right, quite a lot, actually. I think I swallowed a lot of blood, too, so I'm rather nauseous."

Trixie fetched him some aspirin and made sure he downed the entire glass of water. "At least Shelagh set your nose," she said. She frowned. "What were you doing out of bed anyway?"

"I went down to the reception to ask for some matches in case we wanted to get a fire going in the hearth after all." He touched his nose, then winced. "I mainly wanted to clear my head."

"Oh."

Christopher stroked her knuckles, toyed with her wedding ring. "Trixie, about what I proposed earlier this night…"

"Don't mention it. I was being extremely silly, Christopher. I'm sorry."

"Don't be, darling. It's just that… Don't you see how well you take care of me? You're a born caregiver. It seems to be in your blood." He smiled, then grimaced as the muscles tugged on his wounded skin. "I want you to know that you would be a great mother. You already are a great mother. There's no need to be afraid."

Trixie pulled her hand away, brought it to her mouth, and tore at a nail, chipping the cherry polish she'd applied that morning. "I love you, Christopher, but I…" Helpless, she shook her head. "I don't think I want a child just yet."

"And that's perfectly all right."

"And is it also perfectly all right if I may not want a child for a good while yet? Maybe not ever?" she asked in a small voice, forcing herself to look him in the face yet unable to keep her eyes from slipping away from him.

He remained quiet.

"I might change my mind, of course. I might change it at any time. Maybe I'll want ten children with you. Who knows? I…" she babbled on, suddenly afraid of silence.

Christopher took hold of her hand and pulled it away from her mouth. "I married you because of you, Trixie. You are enough for me."

"Gosh, I think that might be the sweetest thing someone has ever said to me," she said, vision swimming with tears. She snuggled up to him and kissed his cheek. "I love you," she whispered. She pressed her face against his warm throat.

"No shenanigans, Mrs Dockerill. My face isn't up to it," he quipped.

"No shenanigans," she promised, "if you just hold me."

"Always."

They saw the Turners at breakfast next morning. They all seemed to hesitate for a second, then sat down at the same table.

 _"_ How did you sleep then, you two? That is, if you got any…" Patrick said.

"Once again: I'm awfully sorry about your nose," Shelagh said, twisting the fabric of a lovely poppy dress Trixie hadn't seen before between her fingers.

"At least he doesn't have two black eyes. I look like the occasional panda when my mascara runs. We can't have another panda in the same home," Trixie quipped. She intertwined her hand with Christopher and kissed the back of it.

"What about you?" Christopher asked Shelagh.

She showed him her bandaged hand. "I just split the skin on my knuckles. It's nothing, really, especially when compared to your nose…"

"It'll heal," Christopher said.

They were silent for a little while.

"Next time, we'll make sure not to pick twin rooms," Shelagh said.

"Maybe that's for the best," Trixie agreed. "The walls really were awfully thin…"


End file.
